She was the last person the Gray Phantom had expected to see at that
moment, and this was the last place where he would have dreamed of
finding her. He stared into her face until the flame of the match bit
his fingers.
"You!" He dropped the stub and trampled it under his foot. She stood
rigid in the shadows, and the wan glint of the pistol barrel told that
she was still pointing the weapon at him. Her breath came fast, with
little soblike gasps, as if she were trying to stifle a violent emotion.
"How did you get here?" she demanded, her voice scarcely above a
whisper.
"By a tight squeeze," he said lightly. "I must be a sight."
"You came through the--tunnel?"
"I did as a matter of fact, though I don't see how you guessed it."
Staring at her through the dusk, the Phantom was conscious that his
statement had exerted a profound effect upon her. She drew a long
breath, and her figure, scarcely distinguishable in the gloom, seemed to
shrink away from him.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, an odd throb in her voice. "Then you did it!"
"Did what?"
"Murdered Sylvanus Gage."
The Phantom shook his head. "You deduce I am a murderer from the fact
that I got here through a tunnel. Well, that may be very good feminine
logic, but----"
"It is excellent logic, my friend," interrupted a voice somewhere in the
darkness; and in the same moment there came a click, and a bright
electric light flooded the scene. The Phantom had a brief glimpse of a
ludicrous little man with an oversized head, a round protuberance of
stomach, and short, thin legs encased in tightly fitting trousers; then
he turned to Helen Hardwick and gazed intently into her large,
misty-bright eyes.
"Oh, they're brown, I see," he murmured. "I had a notion they were
either blue or gray. Queer how one forgets."
The girl looked as though utterly unable to understand his levity, for
as such she evidently construed his remark. The thin-legged man stepped
away from the door through which he had entered and approached them
slowly, giving the Phantom a gravely appraising look over the rims of
his glasses. The Phantom had eyes only for Helen Hardwick. He studied
her closely, almost reverentially, noticing that her eyes, which upon
his entrance had been steady and cool, were now strangely agitated,
radiating a dread that seemed to dominate her entire being. The hand
that clutched the pistol trembled a trifle, and there were signs of an
extreme tension in the poise of the strong, slender figure, in the
quivering nostrils, and in the pallor that suffused the smooth oval of
her face.
"Remarkable!" murmured the spectacled individual, drawing a few steps
closer to obtain a clearer view of the Phantom. "The young lady and
myself are covering you with our pistols, and yet you exhibit no fear
whatever. Most remarkable! May I feel your pulse, sir?"
The Phantom's lips twitched at the corners as he looked at the speaker.
The latter's automatic, pointed at a somewhat indefinite part of the
Phantom's body, seemed ludicrously large in contrast with the slight
stature of the man himself.
"My name, sir," declared the little man with an air of vast importance,
"is Doctor Tyson Bimble. You may have heard of me. I have written
several treatises on the subject of criminal anthropology, and my
professional services have occasionally been enlisted by the police. Not
that such work interests me," he added quickly. "The solution of crime
mysteries and the capture of criminals are the pastimes of inferior
minds. As a man of science, I am interested solely in the criminal
himself, his mental and physical characteristics and the congenital
traits that distinguish him. Again I ask you if I may feel your pulse."
Smiling, the Phantom extended his hand. Admonishing Miss Hardwick to
keep a steady aim, Doctor Bimble pocketed his own weapon and took out
his watch.
"Perfectly normal," he declared when the examination was finished. "At
first I thought that at least a part of your superb coolness was
simulated. It is all the more remarkable in view of the fact that at
this very moment you are surrounded on all sides by the police. They
have thrown a cordon around the block and every house is being
systematically searched."
The Phantom stiffened. His abrupt and unexpected meeting with Helen
Hardwick had momentarily blunted his sense of caution, causing him to
forget that he was still in imminent danger. He threw her a quick glance
noticing a look of alarm in her face. He made a rapid appraisal of the
situation. His flight through the tunnel could not have taken him more
than twelve or fifteen yards from the rear of the Gage establishment,
and he was almost certain that the passage had extended in a straight
southerly direction. Consequently the place in which he now found
himself must be one of the shed-like structures he had seen from the
window of Gage's bedroom.
His eyes opened wide as he looked around. Whatever the place might look
like from the outside, the interior certainly did not have the
appearance of a shed. It was a strange setting, and it seemed all the
stranger because he had found Helen Hardwick in it. At one end was a
long bench covered with bottles, glass jars, tubes, and a queer-looking
assortment of chemical apparatus. The walls were lined with rows of tall
cabinets with glass doors, each containing a skeleton, and above these
was a frieze of photographs and X-ray prints in black frames.
He wondered how Miss Hardwick happened to be in such strange
surroundings. Her large, long-lashed eyes avoided him, and her right
hand, cramped about the handle of the pistol, wavered a trifle. She had
changed since their last meeting, he noticed. She had seemed half child
and half woman then, a vivacious young creature with a mixture of
reckless audacity, demure wistfulness and adorable shyness whose
bewildering contradictions had enhanced a loveliness that had gone to
the Phantom's head like foaming wine. In the course of a few months she
had acquired the subtle and indefinable something that differentiates
girlhood from womanhood. Her face--he had liked to think of it as
heart-shaped--had sobered a little, and the graceful lines of chin and
throat seemed firmer. Faintly penciled shadows at the corners of her
lips hinted that a touch of somberness had crept into her mood, but even
such a trifling detail as a few wisps of loosened hair dangling
sportively against her cheeks seemed to go a long way toward upsetting
this effect.
Doctor Bimble's thin and rasping voice startled the Phantom out of his
reverie.
"My laboratory, sir," he explained with a comprehensive wave of the
hand. "What you see here is probably the most remarkable collection of
its kind in the world. Each of these skeletons represents a distinct
criminal type. Here, for instance are the bones of Raschenell, the
famous apache. They are supposed to be buried in a cemetery in Paris,
but a certain French official for whom I once did a favor was obliging.
In my private rogues' gallery you see photographs of some of the most
notorious criminals the world has ever known, and these X-ray pictures
illustrate various pathological conditions usually associated with
criminal tendencies. Quite remarkable, you will admit."
"Quite," said the Phantom a little absently, as if his mind were
occupied with more pressing matters than the bones of notorious
malefactors.
"You may feel perfectly at ease, my friend." The little doctor, noticing
the Phantom's abstraction, spoke soothingly. "I think I have already
made it clear that the pursuit and capture of criminals don't interest
me. Without doubt we shall arrive at some amicable understanding that
will insure your safety."
"Understanding?" echoed the Phantom, having detected a slight but
significant emphasis on the word.
"Yes; why not? You have interested me for some time, Mr.--ahem. Let me
see--I believe your real name is Cuthbert Vanardy?"
The Phantom nodded.
"Making due allowance for the exaggerations of stupid newspaper writers,
I have long recognized that you are a remarkable individual. Yes,
remarkable. You do not belong to any of the types mentioned by Prichard,
Pinel, and Lombroso, but you are a type of your own. Naturally you
arouse my scientific curiosity. Nothing would please me more than to add
you to my collection."
The Phantom glanced at the grisly contents of the cabinets. A
serio-comic grin wrinkled his face. "Aren't you a bit hasty, doctor? I
am not dead yet, you know."
"True--quite true. But a man like you leads a precarious existence. If
he doesn't break his neck in some rash adventure the electric chair is
always a menacing possibility. The chances are that I shall outlive you
by a score of years. Promise that you will give the matter due
consideration."
The Phantom blinked his eyes. Doctor Bimble seemed amiable enough, yet
the man was scarcely human. His whole being was wrapped up in his
science and his entire world was composed of anthropological specimens
and fine-spun theories.
"You wish me to make arrangements to have my body turned over to you
after my death?"
"Precisely, Mr. Vanardy. That is what my friend and neighbor, Sylvanus
Gage, did. An inferior personality, yet he had his points of interest. I
am obliged to you for hastening his demise."
A tremulous gasp sounded in the room. The Phantom turned, and his brow
clouded as he noticed the expression of anguish that had crossed Helen's
face at the doctor's words.
"You're mistaken, Bimble," he declared sharply; "I didn't kill Gage. If
I had done so, I should scarcely be here at the present moment."
Doctor Bimble shrugged his shoulders. "The matter is of little
consequence, my dear sir. Whether or not you killed Gage is not of the
slightest interest to me. However," with a significant glance at
Vanardy's mud-streaked clothing and begrimed features, "I am strongly of
the opinion that you did. The only thing that perplexes me is that you
are taking the trouble to deny it. Did I hear you say that you came here
through the tunnel?"
"I did." As he spoke the two words, the Phantom felt Helen's eyes
searching his face.
"Enough." The anthropologist made a gesture expressive of finality.
"Your admission that you came through the tunnel is an admission that
you killed Gage. I perceive you do not follow me. Well, then, the
circumstances of the crime prove conclusively that it was committed by
someone who was aware of the existence of the tunnel. What the foolish
newspapers refer to as astounding and miraculous is simplicity itself.
The murderer entered Gage's bedchamber by way of the underground passage
and made his escape by the same route. Nothing could be simpler."
The Phantom laughed mirthlessly. The doctor's theory, though at first
glance shallow and far-fetched, impressed him uncomfortably, instilling
in his mind an idea that had not occurred to him until now. Helen,
standing a few paces away, was regarding him intently.
"To-day, I infer, you returned to the scene of your crime," continued
the doctor, speaking in the dry tones of one developing a thesis.
"Criminals often do, but why you, a superior type, should exhibit the
same failing is beyond me. Some time in the near future I shall write a
monograph on the subject, with particular reference to your individual
case. However, the fact remains that you returned to the scene of your
crime. I take it that by some blunder or careless move you betrayed your
presence. At any rate, you found yourself trapped in Gage's bedchamber.
What more natural than that, for the second time within a week, you
should use the tunnel as a means of escape?"
The Phantom was silent for a moment. Helen Hardwick seemed to be
searching his soul with eyes that gave him a distressing impression of
doubt, suspicion, and reproach.
"You're mistaken." He was addressing the doctor, but the effect of his
words was intended for the girl. "I went to Gage's house this afternoon,
hoping to find some clew to the murderer."
"Ah!" The doctor's chuckle expressed amusement. "You were acting on the
idea that it takes a crook to catch a crook, I suppose. Go on. Your
ingenious explanations are diverting."
"I found myself cornered," continued the Phantom, stifling his
resentment. "With the house surrounded and the police pounding on the
door, I had only a few moments in which to find a way out. I used the
tunnel, but I discovered the opening by merest accident."
"Impossible--flatly impossible! Yes, I see your wrist is scratched, but
that proves nothing. That opening, my dear sir, could never have been
discovered by accident."
"You seem to know something about it yourself," remarked the Phantom
pointedly.
"I do," admitted the anthropologist, with a broad grin.
"And the tunnel runs into the cellar of your house."
"So it does." The doctor seemed not at all disturbed by Vanardy's sharp
gaze. "Years ago, when I was looking for an inconspicuous and
out-of-the-way place in which to pursue my studies in quiet, I leased
the house to which this laboratory forms an extension. I saw Gage now
and then, and the man interested me. Even before we became confidential
I had noticed phrenological manifestations that seemed to classify him
as belonging to one of the types described by Lombroso. Step by step I
became familiar with his history and mode of life. I learned that he was
conducting an extensive traffic in stolen goods, and that he had a broad
circle of acquaintances in the underworld. Gage proved useful,
introducing me to criminals whom I wished to study at close range, and,
in addition to that, the man himself interested me. I saw traits and
peculiarities in him that were strangely contradictory. And so, when one
day he confided to me that he was living in constant fear of the police,
who were likely to raid his premises at any time and confiscate his
valuables, I made a proposition to him."
"You offered to help on the condition that he sign his body over to you
for dissecting purposes," guessed the Phantom.
"Exactly, my friend." Bimble rubbed his hands in glee. "I offered to
invent an avenue of escape that would be absolutely safe and proof
against detection. Gage accepted, and I set to work fulfilling my part
of the bargain. The result, if I may bestow compliments on myself, was a
work of genius."
The Phantom gazed in frank astonishment at the versatile anthropologist.
"The police have a nasty name for that sort of thing," he observed.
"The police and I are friends. I help them on occasions, when the spirit
moves me and the case interests me. And a scientific man, my dear sir,
cannot afford to have moral scruples. The ends of science justify all
other things, even assisting a criminal to escape. Incidentally I
derived a lot of entertainment out of the planning of the tunnel. In the
first place, the window was purposely built so small that no one would
consider it for a moment as a possible means of escape. Still less would
any one think of looking for an exit hidden behind the frame of such a
window. You noticed the nail, of course. A lot of psychology is centered
around that nail."
"So it's a psychological nail, eh?" The Phantom looked at the scratch on
his wrist.
"I knew, from my observations of the workings of the human mind, that
not one person in ten million would give a second thought to that nail.
Even if, by remote chance, someone should touch it, he would never
suspect that it was a part of a mechanism. If, by a still remoter
chance, he would investigate more closely, he would not know how to
operate it. So, you see, there is not one chance in a billion that a
stranger would find the tunnel. Do you blame me for doubting your
statement that you found it by accident?"
The Phantom looked at Miss Hardwick. Doctor Bimble's explanation seemed
to have impressed her strongly. He did not wonder at this, for he knew
there was logic in the anthropologist's argument. Nothing but his firm
belief that Gage had provided himself with an emergency exit of some
sort had prompted the Phantom to give the nail a closer scrutiny.
Doctor Bimble gave him a mildly amused look.
"You agree with me--don't you, Vanardy? I think my logic holds together.
Only a person familiar with the tunnel could have committed the murder.
Conversely, a person betraying a knowledge of the tunnel is a worthy
object of suspicion."
"Haven't you forgotten something?" The Phantom suddenly called to mind
his own theory of the crime. "One other person could have committed the
murder without a knowledge of the tunnel."
"Yes, I know," said the doctor wearily. "You are thinking of Officer
Pinto. The possibility that he might be the guilty one occurred to me as
soon as I saw the newspaper account, but the probabilities of the case
controverted that view. Officer Pinto is an honest, dull-witted,
conscientious soul--nothing else. That kind of man doesn't com----"
The jangling of a bell in front of the house interrupted him. There was
a humorous twinkle in his eyes as he looked at the Phantom over the rims
of his spectacles. Helen inhaled sharply.
"The police have come to search the house, I think," Doctor Bimble
murmured languidly. "My man Jerome--an estimable fellow, by the way--is
already admitting them. In a few moments they will be coming this way.
Of course, if I tell them that I have seen nothing of a fugitive, they
will go away without making an extended search."
Vanardy stiffened. His head went up and his eyes narrowed; then he
glanced quizzically at the doctor. It seemed to him that Bimble had
stressed the word if, as though a condition were implied.
"Well, Vanardy?" The anthropologist's tone was light and playful. Sounds
of distant footfalls reached their ears. The Phantom's darting eyes
rested for an instant on one of the skeletons, and in a twinkling he
understood. He laughed shortly, for the idea impressed him as
grotesquely humorous.
"I see," he said quickly. "You'll say the necessary word to the police
if I agree to dedicate my earthly remains to your private hall of fame."
"You grasp my meaning exactly. But the time is short and I sha'n't press
you for a definite promise. Only give me your word that you will
consider the proposition."
"Very well; I'll consider it," promised the Phantom. "But I warn you
that I have no burning ambition to become a skeleton for some time yet."
A pleased grin wrinkled the doctor's face. The footfalls, mingling with
gruff voices, were coming closer, signifying that the searchers were
rapidly approaching the laboratory.
"This way, Vanardy." The doctor beckoned the Phantom to follow as he
started toward the door. Approaching footsteps caused him to draw back.
A look of bewilderment came into his face.
"We have wasted too much time," he said complainingly; then, as he
looked about the room, his face brightened. "But this will do for a
hiding place. Better come along, Miss Hardwick. It may save you
embarrassing questions."
He stepped hurriedly to one side of the room, opened a door and motioned
them into a narrow closet. A moment later they heard a key turn in the
lock.